


Confidentiality

by Quedarius



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quedarius/pseuds/Quedarius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will is undergoing court-mandated therapy in the wake of the events of Mizumono.</p><p>(I wrote this mostly to get a look at Will and Hannibal's relationship from an outside POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“No, I never saw myself wanting kids before… all this.”

The patient before me twisted his lips to the side as he answered my gentle inquiry—for him, usually a sign that we were broaching dangerous territory. Of course, I had known that it was a loaded question before it even left my mouth. I regarded him for a moment, scanning for any further signals of trouble he might leave me in a subtle fluttering of eyes, a sudden clenching of a fist, but he was gone again, the quick flicker of discomfort on his face smoothed almost as soon as he realized it was there. His eyes were gazing somewhere above my shoulder, vacant. As if he was somewhere else.

_Still dissociating_ , I wrote, careful to keep my notepad out of his view.

“You talk about Abigail Hobbs frequently, and with affection,” I prompted, “What kind of role did you see yourself filling for her?”

He smirked, a quick little twitch of his mouth,

“She was the exception to the rule... or rather, she is what changed the rules. Before Abigail, I thought of children as kind of a package deal… birthday parties, soccer games, big housing developments... It wasn’t just having a kid, it was a whole lifestyle that I—I uh, didn’t fit into very well.”

He still wouldn’t meet my eyes, but now he finally broke contact with whatever distant scene he had been watching, and looked down over a grin.

“That’s just the thing though, it wasn’t a life that Abigail fit into either. When we met her, she was so lost. She asked for our help, and nothing could have prepared me for that feeling... of being _needed_ by someone. And suddenly, I understood the appeal. I _wanted_ to be that for her. H— _he_ made me think that she needed that.”

Just the smallest stumble over a name that was rarely spoken, eyes narrowed sharply as his mouth reprimanded his mind, erased the slip before it happened. Now he looked up again, his expression hard to read. That small wry smile still lingered around the edges of his mouth, despite his far-away eyes.

“It’s a powerful feeling, isn’t it? Being needed?” I asked.

For the first time in our session, Will Graham’s eyes met mine. The vague, manic expression left his face, replaced by a clear, cold anger.

“It’s not about power,” he said quietly, “It’s never been about power for me.”

_For me_ I noted. I knew all too well the significance of those two words. The name _Hannibal_ weighed heavily in my mind, even though it had never left his lips.

Graham was every bit as aware as I of the presence he’d unwittingly brought into the room, judging by the sudden shift in his demeanor. He had been calm, if somewhat withdrawn, sitting straight-backed and stoic in the chair across from me (rather than the couch to the left of my desk as most of my patients did). Now, he seemed to shrink in defensively, shoulders pulling tightly, gaze flickering to the bookshelf, the window, anything so long as it didn’t rest in one place too long, as if the errant Doctor Lecter might be staring back at him from my seat if he did.

“He took all that from me, again and again,” he spat. I did not miss the way his hands curled on the armrests.

“Will,” I said, hoping that my voice sounded calm but not patronizing, “We’ve been over this. Abigail was not at Dr. Lecter’s house that night. There was no body, no physical evidence. You are the only one who saw her.”

“Dr. Bloom said—“

“Dr. Bloom has repeatedly stated that she has no memory of that night. You shouldn’t be projecting your recollections onto her.”

I paused, taking in the crease of distress in Graham’s brow, the flush of anger in his cheeks. My resolve softened.

“Will, I know that this is hard for you, but I can’t tell the court you’re making progress if you keep harboring delusions like this. _I_ believe that you are not a killer, but what this looks like from the outside is three Federal agents ambushing a psychiatrist in his home, two of them armed. It looks bad for everyone involved.

“Now I would love nothing more than for the FBI to seriously investigate Dr. Lecter’s… convenient disappearance, but I have to know that it’s a man they’re looking for and not a body before I can tell anyone that you’re fit to enter the public sphere again.”

Neither of us spoke of the consequences he might face when that time came, both legal and personal.

Graham looked at me for the second time in our session, curiously blue eyes holding something back, something that was far beyond my pay grade to analyze. Eventually I looked down at my desk, embarrassed, both by his intense look and at the knowledge that he saw me break contact first.

“I suppose ‘Patient is recovering from trauma’ might be a little undermined by the footnote ‘still insists on dead girl’s presence at crime scene.’” He admitted, going for tongue-in-cheek and managing only bitterness. The effect was softened somewhat by the genuine, if small, smile he offered to combat his angry tone. I felt a quiet well of pity for the broken man before me, and buried it quickly beneath the professional detachment I adopted for all my patients. I smiled back, hoping that it came across as warm and not tired, which is all I felt.

“I suppose so.”

A hard rap at the office door shattered the peace that had settled lightly over us, and an orderly entered at my called invitation to take Graham back to his room. Our hour was up.

I rose, as always, when Graham struggled to his feet, the tight wince he fought to hide the only outward sign of his still-healing wounds. As always, he waved me away impatiently when I offered him help.

“Thank you, Dr. Hirsch,” Graham said before being nudged out the door. He offered me another quick smile, lopsided and not quite reaching his eyes.

“See you soon, Will.”

I felt ashamed when I realized that I was eager for him to leave.

When he was gone, the office felt smaller, but brighter; the corners not so sharp, I could _breathe_ again. Will Graham was a tempest, full of anger and betrayal. Our sessions always left me drained, exhausted; as if I had been treading water the entire hour.

I sank into my desk chair with a heavy sigh, took my glasses off and wiped them with my shirt hem. The drawer by my right knee rattled when I pulled it open, grasping within for my pen, and I looked longingly at the flask that glinted enticingly from under several layers of office kipple. I had several more appointments that day, and so with a sigh, I slammed it shut and began my paperwork.


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t like people poking around in my head.”

He stood next to my bookshelf, scrutinizing the spines, picking up knick-knacks on occasion. If Graham saw the irony in his complaining about privacy while he casually went through my things, he didn’t show it.

“That’s understandable,” I remarked from behind my desk, “You don’t have a great track record with psychiatrists.”

He looked sharply at me, eyebrows raised almost comically high in surprise. Then, something amazing happened.

Will Graham laughed— not a bitter snicker or a sarcastic huff, but an honest belly laugh that transformed his face into someone younger, someone happier. It was short-lived, quickly turning into a tight wince of pain as his hand fluttered automatically to his abdomen, but the mirth didn’t leave his eyes.

“Yeah, I… I guess you could say that,” he admitted. He carefully lowered himself into the chair across from my desk. “Humor is new though. Unusual approach, Dr. Hirsch.”

“Would you prefer Dr. Lecter’s methods?”

It was a risk. I meant to continue the banter, using Graham’s own brand of sarcasm. However, we were still tiptoeing over that name. I watched him carefully, hoping he wouldn’t retreat into whatever corner of his mind he’d run to when I’d brought up the doctor previously.

He was silent for a moment, the slight smile lingering despite his suddenly unfocused eyes. Just when I began to fear I was losing him to memory, he looked up at me with a smirk.

“I don’t think you would… enjoy his particular brand of therapy.”

His mouth was tucked wryly to the side, as though he was enjoying a private joke, and I bit my cheek on the question that hung between us. We had rarely spoken of the relationship between Graham and Lecter, and I didn’t want to ask the wrong thing.

“Will…” I started, “if Hannibal Lecter is the killer the FBI is looking for, then why—“

“Why didn’t they find any evidence?”

“Well, yes.”

I looked at him hopefully. Technically, I was out of the realm of professionalism now—my job was to declare Will Graham sane, so that he could stand trial for the crimes his superiors believed he’d committed.

But I could not do that.

Graham’s mind was broken, twisted beyond recognition by an unknown hand, and if I was to help him recover, it would not be for him to walk straight into the death penalty for murders he did not commit. I had taken an oath to do no harm, and I took it very seriously.

Graham tilted his head, brow knitted in consternation. Was he hiding something from me? Or deciding how much to confess?

“There was… no evidence because he was ready. He had been preparing to leave for some time,” he said, words seeming unwilling to part with his lips. Then, quietly he added,

“Actually, _we_ had been preparing to leave.”

I looked for traces of sarcasm in Graham’s face, but it offered no such clarity. My mouth opened, almost of its own accord, but he continued before I could think of anything to say.

“If Jack Crawford testifies, he’ll confirm that I was allowing—” Graham stopped and swallowed, “…allowing _Hannibal_ to believe that I would go with him. It was Hannibal’s suggestion; he thought I was too reckless. We were going to leave, to start over—“

“But you were just letting him think that in order to catch him?” I interjected.

“—to go somewhere where nobody would know us,” he went on, ignoring me completely, “and hell, I’m not sure that’s not what I wanted. I don’t know what I wanted, but not this.”

“Will—” I cautioned, but he went on, voice raising into a shout.

“And somehow he _knew_ , maybe he had all along, maybe this was all just one of his games, but he knew that I had been helping Jack and he offered… god, he offered for us to leave the night before, to disappear without anyone else getting hurt,”

He stood, too quickly for someone who had been injured as seriously and recently as he, and the chair fell with a crash. I leapt up as well, suddenly fearful, eyes flickering between Graham and the buzzer that would call in the guard to sedate him.

“…But of course, I told him we HAD to stay, that we owed Jack the truth.”

“Will, calm down!”

 “I would’ve gone,” he whispered, voice ragged and eyes focusing somewhere over my head. Will Graham was no longer seeing me. He stepped forward, leaning on the desk, eyes never leaving that same spot. My hand twitched, but didn’t move for the buzzer. This was the most Graham had ever said about Lecter.

“I would’ve,” he continued, “If you had just… I could’ve forgotten the rest if Abigail…”

He reached forward slowly, grasping for something unseen. Or someone, I amended. His face twisted with a pain so great, I looked away instinctively. It seemed private, primal. It resurrected for just a moment a laughing boy, face dimpling, backpack dancing against him as he ran to catch the bus, from the deepest parts of my own grief. I shoved the thought aside. Graham was here now, and needed my help.

“Will,” I said shakily, “Stay with me.”

His lips parted slightly at my words, gasped as if I’d struck him, but then he blinked rapidly. Blue eyes met mine, and I let out a relieved sigh.

“Dr. Hirsch… I’m sorry, I…” he trailed off, brow crinkling in confusion.

“It’s alright,” I managed. I had been flooded with adrenaline, and it had left me light headed and empty. “You’re alright, and it’s gonna—“

His eyes dropped down to his waist, and mine followed instinctively. The grey cotton of his shirt was pooling with blood.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dr. Bloom, thank you for seeing me.”

The quiet hum and beeping of machinery provided accompaniment to our conversation. A momentary awkwardness hung between us. I would have shaken her hand, but instead stared hopelessly at the various contraptions confining her to the hospital bed.

“Please, step into my office,” she said, smiling at her own dry humor.

I pulled up one of the typically uncomfortable hospital chairs and sat down, analyzing the woman before me. Even in the starched white burrow of hospital blankets and IVs, Alana Bloom had a graceful strength about her, her hair spilling around the brace and onto her pillows in a dark halo. I hoped fervently that I didn’t reek of last night’s gin, that my clothes weren’t too obviously wrinkled.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.

“Well, I’m currently treating a patient whom I believe is a mutual acquaintance—“

“Will Graham,” she interjected. Her tone was polite but guarded. I nodded, knowing that she understood perfectly well that my being here bordered on a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality. She still looked as though she wanted to ask something, but held it back. I was grateful.

“I think,” I began carefully, “that I would be better able to treat him if I knew what I was dealing with. That is, if I knew what happened the night he was incarcerated.”

“Are you a psychiatrist or a federal investigator, Dr. Hirsch?” she asked. Her tone was joking, but her eyes were dark and serious, searching me.

“I’ve already spoken to the authorities about this,” she continued before I could answer, “and I know that you have Will Graham’s file. I don’t remember _going_ to Hannibal’s house that night, much less what happened there.”

Her eyes flicked down, over the bed that held her broken body captive, and something twisted in my chest. Dr. Bloom maintained such a strong presence that it was easy to forget that she had also been hurt that night, in more ways than one.

“What I mean is, I have no idea how to proceed with this patient because I don’t know what is part of his delusion and what is real trauma.” I wanted to justify myself to her. If I could speak to her candidly, could tell her about the broken way he’d spoken to empty space in my office, about him having to get the stitches put back in after losing who he was…

But I couldn’t.

“Was… was Abigail Hobbs there?” I gave it one more shot.

There was a chip in Dr. Bloom’s armor. Her eyes tightened, and her mouth formed a little “o” of surprise that might have been comical under different circumstances. The breach in her defenses was short-lived, walls crashing down behind her eyes almost before I even realized they were there, but it was enough. I regarded her with dawning realization.

“Abigail Hobbs is dead,” she said coldly.

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

She was silent for a beat. She closed her eyes.

“I don’t remember that night, but I find it highly unlikely that a dead girl was in attendance.” She looked back at me with her jaw set firmly.

She was lying.

I couldn’t explain it, but I knew it deep in my gut; Dr. Bloom was purposely misleading me. For a moment, I was angry with her. _Beyond_ angry. Not only was she a professional, she was supposedly Will Graham’s friend. Why would she withhold the truth when it could be vital to Graham’s recovery? Not to mention, to clearing his name? I steeled myself.

“You’re sure you don’t remember _anything_?”

The accusation was clear in my voice, despite my best efforts.

“I… I think you should go, Dr. Hirsch,” she began, face pale.

“Who are you protecting by denying him the truth, Dr. Bloom? Hannibal Lecter?” My voice was low, and I was trying to keep it level. This brand of interrogation was cruel, but so was letting Graham die for crimes he didn’t commit. I liked Dr. Bloom, I did.

But she was not my patient. And I had taken an oath.

Her eyes were wide. Shocked, probably, at my low-brow tactics. But there was something there that looked suspiciously like fear.

“I’m protecting Abigail.” She whispered fiercely.

I blinked, unsure how to respond. That was not the admission I had expected. I should have asked her why, how her silence fit into the greater design, and did that mean that everything Graham had said about that night was the truth?

“Abigail Hobbs?” I asked stupidly instead. As if there were another.

Dr. Bloom’s anger faded, though pink remained high on her cheeks. She took a long moment before she spoke again. I let her, still reeling from this revelation.

“As long as there’s even a… _microscopic_ chance that she could still be alive, I won’t talk about that night. He used her to hurt us, and he would do it again the moment that I testified. They never found a body, you know.”

“But what about Will?” I said, emphasizing his name, “They want blood, they’ll put him on trial for everything they can; including Dr. Lecter’s murder, if he never turns up.”

“Legal issues are the last of Will’s concerns,” she scoffed, “even if he didn’t have friends in high places, Hannibal would never let that happen.”

There was that sour note again. I didn’t ask about it, reminding myself that she was not my patient. I was here for Graham.

“You seem very sure,” I said instead. She gave me a look that bordered on patronizing.

“Give it time. Will won’t even make it to trial.”

The promise echoed with a much darker meaning than she probably intended. We sat in silence while I digested all this new information.

“Why tell me then?” I asked finally. My voice felt strained, overused, although I’d not shouted, had barely spoken above a whisper.

“Because Will needs someone on his side.”

I agreed with Dr. Bloom there, but it seemed like she’d just denied that he would be held responsible for anything. Maybe she noticed my confusion, because she went on, “Will Graham does need saved, but not from the legal system. Hannibal had… an _influence_ on him. He took Will’s mind, broke it, re-shaped it like one of his creations. Will needs someone to help him come back to himself. I honestly can’t tell you much about that night, my role was… somewhat short lived. But I think you should take more stock in what Will tells you. I spent a long time not listening to him, and here we are.”

She looked resignedly at the hospital room around us, and I felt a pang of affection for her. She could’ve called for a nurse, she could have lied. There were at least a hundred other paths this conversation could’ve taken, but she chose to help.

I considered what she’d said, and applied it to my perception of Graham. The picture that it painted was ugly. I would rather treat him for mental illness than be forced to accept the dark accusations that spilled from his mouth as truth.

Dr. Bloom’s eyes were far away. When she came back to the present, her mouth twitched in a tired semblance of a smile.

“How do psychiatrists greet each other?”

I had heard the joke before, but I just smiled back, inviting her to continue. She adopted a silly, low voice when she delivered the punchline, “ _You are fine, how am I_?”

I laughed, genuinely, and she joined me. The sound of it was comforting; in the way that another’s presence makes us more able to face the dark. We laughed, two tired people tangled in this story without our foreknowledge. I mourned not having known Dr. Bloom outside of this hospital, before someone had traced shadows under her eyes and caution into her voice. The laughter faded from her, and she sighed.

“I told Hannibal that one, but he didn’t see the humor.”

As she said it, she punched the button in her hand three times. I assumed it was pain medication. I wondered what had triggered her to need it, the laughter, or the mention of Hannibal Lecter.

Either way, it was probably time for me to go.

I said my goodbyes quickly. As her eyes grew heavy-lidded with morphine, she told me that she had an appointment soon anyway.  I wondered if it was another joke, or if she was really seeing someone walk into her office as she drifted into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

On my desk, there is a Newton’s cradle, a little office toy that Janine bought me when I finished grad school. She thought it was funny. I have a habit of clicking the little wrecking balls when I’m thinking. I probably should have thrown it out with everything else she had left behind, but I couldn’t bring myself to dump the little guy in the trash. Maybe it reminded me of happier times. Maybe I was just scared that if I got rid of it, I wouldn’t be able to think straight.

Will Graham glared at it as if its presence offended him.

“Will?”

He looked up sharply.

“I’m sorry, what did you say Dr. Hirsch?”

I swallowed the heavy sigh that tried to force its way out. Will was more distant than usual, and I was still somewhat preoccupied by my visit with Dr. Bloom. Our session so far had been comparable to pulling teeth.

“I asked you about Alana Bloom. What is your relationship like?”

The smile he offered was caustic.

“Do you mean _now_ , or before she acknowledged that she was fucking Dr. Lecter?”

The Newton’s cradle clacked on, unaware of the sudden, stiff pause in our conversation. I carefully composed my face so as to not to expose the shock that rolled through me.

I’d met Dr. Lecter not long ago, at a conference. It was right after Janine left and I was at the bottom of a very long spiral, finally beginning to look up. Lecter enjoyed a quiet type of fame within certain circles, mainly for the high-profile clientele he worked with. I had long admired his work from a distance; reading his paper on surgical addiction in my cramped office with aging furniture and noisy pipes. _Dreaming_ of the glamorous career he enjoyed. But that was years ago, when the Newton’s cradle was new and my bookshelves neat.

A colleague introduced us, all but yanking me over to exclaim breathily,

“Hannibal, this is Dr. Hirsch.”

I was amused to note how her hand lingered on the well-dressed doctor’s arm just slightly beyond propriety. If she was attempting to impress Lecter with her connections, she had chosen poorly in introducing him to me. I looked at the man whose work I had devoured so earnestly.

He had handsome, friendly features—a full mouth and eyes that crinkled with a sharp, playful glint. He was dressed in such a way that made me conscious of my barely contained state of disorder, and I adjusted my glasses, as if that could help the stubborn coffee stain on my jacket, the scuffs on my shoes.

“Dr. Hirsch,” he said, offering his hand in greeting.

Hannibal Lecter took my outstretched hand, and something about the way his fingers brushed over the pulse point in my wrist struck me as… wrong. I looked up at him again, without really meaning to. His unusual mouth was still set in a smile, but the joviality was gone from his eyes. In them, in that one second, I saw not a man, a celebrated doctor of psychiatry, but…

An animal. There was only the purest hunger there.

He must have seen my startled look, because the moment was quickly over, walls had been put back up, and he was saying in his rich, accented voice, “It’s a pleasure.”

The impression stuck with me, despite its brevity. It wasn’t as though I actively disliked the man.  But I no longer looked for Lecter’s work. The daydream of being him seemed to fade one day on its own. And when Will Graham came into my office for the first time, refusing to speak the name but screaming it nonetheless, something recoiled in the most primitive corner of my reptile brain. I couldn’t shake the instinctive feeling that Hannibal Lecter was the most real monster I would ever meet. And I could not picture the tough, kind woman that I had met in the hospital with him, it just didn’t fit.

I shouldn’t have even bothered trying to hide my revulsion, Graham knew exactly what reaction he would incite when he spoke. He was uncannily perceptive, and with each second he looked more amused by it. Still, there was a façade of professionalism to be maintained.

“At any point,” I recovered quickly, “You’ve referred to her frequently, but your feelings towards her seem to fluctuate.”

Graham looked away, face twisting as though he’d tasted something bitter.

“That would be a _kind_ way to describe our relationship. We used to be close. I used to think… Well, we used to be closer, before him.”

“Did you have romantic feelings for her?”

“That’s quite a leap, Dr. Hirsch.”

I noted that he didn’t deny it.

“Hardly,” I challenged, “You have said that you considered Dr. Lecter a friend, at times. I can see many reasons why you could dislike _him_ because of their relationship, if all that you say happened is true. But I can’t think of why their relationship would cause dissent between you and Dr. Bloom, unless you experienced jealousy.”

He grinned, but it was unnaturally cold.

At times it was difficult for me to not see traces of Dr. Lecter in Graham, but for his sake, I tried. I considered my overstuffed mail tray instead of meeting his eyes.

“You’re right, I guess. I was primarily worried about Alana’s safety, but there _was_ … some jealousy between us.”

He wore the same strange smirk as he had when talking about Lecter’s therapy in our last session; head slightly cocked, eyes lost in memory. I wondered what part of his mind he was lost to, and what the connection was.

Then it clicked.

“Which of you was more jealous?” I asked. I held my breath, realizing what I’d said only after the words left my mouth. It was a much easier concept to grasp, I was ashamed to admit. Not that I saw Graham as monstrous, just… he was exactly as scarred and broken as one would expect from someone who had looked the devil in the eye and welcomed him.

Graham didn’t deny, didn’t shrink back into himself, or get defensive. He leaned back casually in his chair and regarded me with eyes that suggested I should have known much sooner.

“I like to think it was pretty evenly matched. I don’t think that she knew the extent of it, but she understood that there was something between the two of us that was apart from her. I think that’s what she envied. My understanding of him, fully and without pretense.”

Deep, predatory eyes flashed in my memory. What did Graham see when he looked into them?

“You understood him? Empathized with him?”

“I _saw_ him.”

“And what is he?”

Graham chewed his lip thoughtfully. I didn’t interrupt, allowing him time. He seemed to be present, he wasn’t aggravated. For the first time, we were having a clear conversation about Hannibal Lecter. The context was surprising, true, but it was a breakthrough nonetheless. I would work with whatever I was given. The Newton’s cradle clicked on.

When Graham finally spoke, it was with a surprising softness. The hate and anger had momentarily left his face.

“He’s a man.”

I almost laughed, assuming that this was more of Graham’s cynical attempts at humor. I caught myself, realizing with a shock that his eyes were all too serious. He had opened a door now, and what I saw through it was all too private.

“…and a monster,” Graham allowed. Then, smiling wryly, “and an artist. Hannibal is complicated, that’s what makes him so hard to really hate.”

“How do you mean?”

Graham contemplated this, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s sort of… you don’t blame a dog that bites you. You can get angry, sure, but the dog doesn’t know any better. You blame the owner. Hannibal,” he paused, licking his lips, “…it’s like he’s both the animal _and_ the owner. So all of the loveable, redeemable, _human_ sides of him are the ones that you have to hold accountable, because it’s there that he should have known better. He could have stopped a lot of people from getting hurt, but instead he chose— _chooses—_ to let the beast do what it wants. It’s difficult to hate the only part of him that’s worth something.”

I blinked in surprise at the truth in Graham’s voice.

“You… love the man who killed Abigail Hobbs?”

A flicker of pain just briefly touched his features before he got it in check. He swallowed thickly, and I waited for an answer.

“I loved the part of him that fought to save her.”

The distinction was clear, but still his voice was barely more than a whisper, as though he didn’t want to risk being overheard. The Newton’s cradle suddenly seemed all too loud, and so I stilled it.

“Is there any of that man left in Dr. Lecter? Wherever he is?” I asked in the new silence.

Graham’s eyes were sharp, the pain not gone in them, just repurposed.

“I hope so. I hope there is, so that when I find him, he can feel the whole spectrum of human pain.”

“You want retribution.”

“I want justice, Dr. Hirsch.”

“Justice?” I wondered aloud. Graham did not seem like he had been well-served by the conventional justice system. He bit his lip.

“…I want to see him caged.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who has been following this little project of mine. As you can see from my gallery, it's quite a different piece for me. It's been longer between updates this time than I had planned, because of irl stuff, but now I'm in the home stretch, and I'm grateful to anyone who has kept up with Dr. Hirsch and me as we try to navigate the mess that Will and Hannibal left us after Mizumono. Check back soon for the conclusive chapter!

My thoughts were uncharacteristically preoccupied with this particular patient. There had been a time, when the halls of this house had been not so empty, that I felt I had perfected the art of separating myself from my work. Now, with no sounds but the quiet, lonely shuffle of my morning routine to distract me, it was impossible for my mind not to wander.

I wondered what Alana Bloom would make of Graham’s recent admission, or if she already knew.

I poured my coffee and threw my robe on; ignoring the space for another towel on the rack, the scant contents of my closet now that another’s shoes and slacks had been removed. Giving not a glance to the door across the hall that remained always closed, the scrawl of crayon still faintly visible against the wood despite Janine’s efforts to remove it. Acutely aware of all of these things, nonetheless. A house that echoed with warmth, and me freezing in the middle of it, collecting bottles in my rush to forget, collecting more books that I could ever read just to fill the empty spaces on the shelf.

I leaned out the door, grabbed the mail that I had been too tired to consider the night before, and my mind again drifted to Graham. I would not see him today, I had other patients who demanded less of my thoughts and more of my ability to diagnose and prescribe. I wished that his case were so simple. I sorted through a stack of fliers; put aside a literary journal to take with me to work, and then the letter caught my eye.

The envelope was thick, maroon, addressed in a calligraphic hand that bordered on garish. There was no return address.

Curiosity piqued, I tore at the heavy paper. Something fell out to the floor, but I paid it no mind as I began to read the baroque script:

_Dr. Hirsch,_

_Do you remember me? Do you remember clasping hands at the ARP conference? Your pulse quickened. I wonder what you saw, then. You looked afraid._

_Will Graham can likely tell you about that feeling. You know that I gutted him? I sliced through his center like so much meat. I cut away at Jack Crawford, too, and then Abigail when my hands were still wet with Will’s blood. Has he told you all this? I should think he has. He has such a quick tongue, our Will. So eager to run to Jack when the shadows grow long._

_It is a pity. There’s much beauty to be had in the dark._

_I enclosed a photo for him, would you kindly pass it on? I wouldn’t want to think he’d forgotten our time together so soon. Perhaps I’ll pay you a visit sometime, to check on his progress._

_Hannibal Lecter_

With hands that had begun to tremble, I picked up what I know recognized as a polaroid photo from the ground.

 _How very vintage, Dr. Lecter,_ I thought, barely stopping the mad giggle that lodged itself in my throat. There was more of his now-familiar handwriting on the back of the photo:

_P.S.—she made an excellent quiche._

I swallowed, unwilling to look, knowing that I would anyways.

***

 

“You understand, of course, that this needs to be handled with discretion.”

Kade Prurnell looked weary as she gestured to the letter, now sealed in plastic and laying on what was previously Jack Crawford’s desk. A copy of the photo of Abigail Hobbs lay beneath it, her dead, glazed eyes staring accusingly at me above the dark ribbon of blood across her throat.

For a moment, I was unsure of why Prurnell was implying that I would do anything but; I was not new to working with criminally charged patients, and I had never once gone to the media, or anyone else, with their stories. I was not inclined to begin now, with Lecter’s threat still heavy in my mind.

Then I understood.

“You mean… you’re not going to tell Will Graham,” I said, perhaps more sharply than necessary. Prurnell regarded me with cold eyes.

“I don’t think it would be wise,” she said, frost crackling in her voice.

“Forgive me,” I started, hearing Graham’s sarcasm taint my words, “I know that I’m not FBI, but it seems like this is incredibly relevant to his case. Lecter is _admitting_ to Abigail Hobbs’ murder. If Will was telling the truth about that, doesn’t it stand to reason that he might be telling the truth about the rest? And besides that fact, shouldn’t his lawyer have access to this, at the very least?”

She was silent, scrutinizing me with a taut jaw that betrayed her barely held-in-check anger. I knew that I was pushing limits here, knew that I should bite my tongue now, but my absolute bafflement at the lack of justice here, in this particular office, was overwhelming.

“There are many things to consider before we let this get out of hand, Dr. Hirsch. The letter may not even be from Lecter, it has to go through forensics before we can determine its validity. I don’t want you talking to Will Graham—a man who has proven to be very suggestible— about this until we know it is a real threat,” she folded her long, thin hands in front of her, cocked her head to the side, “Do you understand?”

My blood roiled at the thought of it, but I deferred to her, nodding tersely. A little of the tension eased from her shoulders.

“Now, that being said, I will obviously have surveillance on your home, and on the institution, until this matter is cleared up. You won’t have to worry about becoming a quiche,” she sniffed, perhaps a grotesque attempt at humor. I liked her less and less.

“Thank you,” I allowed, a quiet approximation of politeness forced through my teeth.

***

The next afternoon’s session was terse, silence laying thick over Graham and me in the moments between my questions and his stilted responses. I hadn’t the energy to lie to him, and yet I was being forced to.

And, at the same time, I felt with unquestionable surety that he knew exactly what I was withholding.

I absently toyed with the Newton’s cradle.

“Dr. Hirsch?”

“Mhm?” I answered, guilty. Graham was peering at me sharply, blue eyes lucid and not without a hint of amusement.

“That’s the third time I said your name,” he smirked. “Am I… _boring_ you?”

I opened my mouth to deny: to give him another sour-tasting excuse, and then the fight left me. He seemed to register this, his smile fading and brows drawing low.

“I’m sorry Will, I’m not myself today,” I offered instead: truth parsed out in pieces, “not that that’s an excuse.”

His eyes were still narrowed, reading me. I remembered the graceful flourish Lecter had started Graham’s name with in his letter.

“You saw him,” Graham accused suddenly. I almost answered ‘no’ immediately, before realizing that he hadn’t specified just who _he_ was, and I bit back my guilty response just in time.

“Who?” I asked instead, going for nonchalant and managing only an overly acted blasé. I was no Hannibal Lecter, I didn’t have the means to switch my charm on and off on a whim.

“Or he saw you..,” Graham murmured. “Tell me, Dr. Hirsch, did someone pay you a visit recently?”

I was silent.

Cold, dark eyes came back to me, and I hid a shiver that worked its way up my spine. No. I couldn’t risk losing the FBI’s favor just yet. Hopefully Prurnell would do the right thing. And if not… well, I would deal with that when the threat of Hannibal Lecter didn’t loom quite so near.

Graham sucked his bottom lip pensively. He looked as though he was trying to trap whatever errant thought was trying to find its way out of his mouth.

“Is he alright?” he asked at last. He looked embarrassed to even voice his question aloud, cheeks flushing faintly beneath the florescent lights. “Did they catch him, I mean.”

“I haven’t seen Dr. Lecter, if that’s who you mean,” I told him calmly. That much, at least, was true.

Graham opened his mouth, argument already apparently prepared, but he seemed to change his mind. Instead, he sighed, regarding his hands.

“I’m sure you will.”


	6. Chapter 6

The wind was cool, and smelled of Autumn. The trees rustled above in garish hues of red and yellow, and at my feet, the familiar tombstone boasted a small mound of leaves at its base. I reached out to brush them away, and in the midst of them was a stroke of white petal.

A daisy.

I held it in one gloved hand, wondering at its freshness.

“She comes every Thursday,” said a pleasant, accented voice, nearly startling me into dropping the delicate flower, “-your wife. She comes on Thursday afternoons while you are at work.”

I turned to face Dr. Lecter, cold fear pooling in my gut.

“Ex,” I said, voice mostly steady. The hand not holding the daisy went automatically to my coat pocket, felt for the comforting weight of my phone.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ex wife. For almost a year now.” _Three hundred and twelve days_ , my mind corrected quietly.

“Ah, of course, ex,” Dr. Lecter amended. His carefully bored expression told me he’d already known that.

He looked much the same as when I’d last seen him, hooded eyes glinting darkly in the evening sun, scarf and jacket draping a figure that may have been slimmer, but carried the same coiled strength. He took a casual step closer to me, and in my pocket I began to work the glove off my hand.

He tutted,

“Please, don’t make this messy, doctor. I’m not here to hurt you, but if you call the authorities, you will not leave this cemetery.”

I swallowed thickly, considered my options, and slowly pulled my hand free to show him, empty.

“Alright,” I said, “alright, what do you want?”

A movement that might have been a smile, nothing more than a quick tightening of the eyes, as he considered me. The wind that had seemed mild a minute ago now felt somehow colder, while my blood burned hot through me. Adrenaline, I thought, millennia of ancestor’s instinct screaming in animal terror and rage for me to escape, to run, to survive. I knew a predator when I saw one.

“Did you enjoy my letter?” he asked at last, with the tone of someone deciding what napkins to put out for dinner.

I nodded, jaw tight. Abigail Hobbs’ fear-twisted face flashed through my mind.

“So did Kade Prurnell.”

Now he did smile,

“Oh, I doubt that. I likely complicated her job quite a bit; they would have been very happy with their sacrificial lamb, had I not come in with my…” a small pause, and his jaw twitched, “inconvenient confession.”

Somewhere, someone was burning leaves. The smoky, warm smell of it swirled in the air around us.

As much of a headache that the letter had given Prurnell, I was sure it had been more "inconvenient," as he put it, for Dr. Lecter. FBI efforts to track him had doubled, once they could no longer lay the blame for everything at Graham’s feet. I had no idea how he could have even gotten back into the country.

I wondered, with a shadow of a smile, if that had occurred to him as well; if the pause in his otherwise well-articulated speech had been not amusement, but annoyance. A self-deprecation barely kept out of his voice. I felt curiosity, despite myself, as I considered Dr. Lecter. I tried to look at him as I would a patient.

As I would Will Graham.

I could not help but see the parallels. Lecter was not haunted, but there was a curt edge to his words, a bitter disappointment. There were wounds hidden there that I did not doubt he had brought upon himself, that marred the otherwise perfect illusion of confidence incarnate. And there was the matter of the gauntness to his cheeks; he could hide beneath all the expensive clothing in the world, build walls upon walls of it, but I could still see the physical toll that his escape had taken. The clothing, if anything, _highlighted_ the fact—for he obviously had the means to eat.

Did his food, too, turn to ash in his mouth?

I knew a thing or two about loss. I knew what it was to wake up with the most important part of you missing, to feel anger and to rage against the people that were left. I knew the taste of disappointment, I chased it with whiskey.

Somehow, I didn’t think it was a drinking habit that Lecter had turned to.

I wondered how many people had fallen in his wake, in his monstrous rage, before he had realized that it wouldn’t help, that nothing that had colored his blood with passion before would work until he faced what broke him in the first place. Perhaps that was why he was here.

“How are you, Dr. Lecter?” I asked, using my professional voice now.

He laughed, a chuckle that had a dangerous edge.

“I am not your patient, Dr. Hirsch. Please save your talents for Mr. Graham. I presume he needs them.”

There it was. Subtle, of course, but he had asked.

That was _exactly_ why he was here.

“Will is no longer my patient,” I answered his unspoken inquiry. He responded with gently raised brows, as though it had not occurred to him that his letter would set Graham free. As if he had not done it in hopes that Graham would chase him.

“How very sad for you. He was quite the high-profile patient,” Dr. Lecter said, turning the focus smoothly back on me. “But I’m sure there will be others.”

Irony coated his voice. He knew damn well there would never be another patient like Graham for me, that my professional career had been in ruins even before the messy-haired profiler had stepped into my office, by some miracle. And now…

I hadn’t spoken to the Tattler, but someone had. The full letter had shown up, accompanied by a smear campaign of surprising malice in the same issue. “FBI conspiracy” did not go over well in Prurnell’s office, and I was lucky to still have any patients at all.

Lecter took another slow step forward and I had to force myself not to move back in answer.

“I was actually thinking of leaving the field, after all this,” I said instead, to fill the space between us with something other than his dark gaze.

“A bold move. One I was forced to make as well, unfortunately,” he laughed quietly, “And what will you do, Doctor? Now that you’ve tired of meddling with minds?”

I shrugged, a perfect act of nonchalance.

“Teach. I always wanted to, but I thought I’d wait until Aiden…” my voice failed me, my chest constricted. I forced myself to take a slow, steadying breath. Lecter’s eyes flickered to the jut of stone between us, “…until Aiden graduated.”

A keen, sharp pain then. It was true, Janine and I had talked about it often; that far-away day when our son would leave home. We would lay in bed and laugh about how just being able to lock the bedroom door again would be nice; never thinking that the day might come so quickly, so permanently.

“Well,” Lecter said, “You have all the time in the world now, don’t you?”

A flash of anger at his callous words, and my hands fisted.

I realized though, I was only angry because they were true. I squatted among the shreds of leaves and grass and mud to lay the flower back down. When I stood, Lecter was right beside me. I did not turn, not trusting myself to look him in the eye, so we both contemplated the tombstone instead. All around us, the dead were silent witness. A fitting setting, I thought, to what might be my last conversation.

“Why did your wife leave you?” he asked after a heavy moment. In this, at least, I could sense no manipulation, no ulterior motive. He sounded, for the first time, genuinely curious. Earnest, even; as though my answer really mattered to him.

As such, I thought for a minute, sucking my lip as I’d seen Graham do many times.

“She left because I wasn’t good for her anymore,” I said at last. “She was just doing what she had to, to survive. We both did.”

I realized the parallel only after I’d said it. I glanced at him then, curiosity winning out. Lecter’s eyes were tight with pain, though he continued to stare ahead.

“Do you hate her for it?”

“…I did,” I admitted. “Just as I blamed myself. For pushing her away, when I should have reached out. When I should have told her the truth; that I was just as scared and angry and confused as she was.

“I isolated myself, in that way, long before she gave up on me.”

Lecter looked down, away, not meeting my eyes.

“Do you think you could forgive her?”

The wind rattled through the trees, and I laughed dryly, thinking of _the_ fight, the last one. Of the wounds she’d torn with her words, of the accusations I’d flung back in defense. As if, by laying blame, I could justify the way that I’d withdrawn from her when she’d needed me. No knives through flesh that day, but the pain was, in many ways, the same.

“I would. If she could ever forgive me.”

Lecter hummed a thoughtful acknowledgement. The sun was making a last, dying effort at lighting the sky, producing an eerie orange cast over his features.

“Why did you do it?” I asked. “I mean all of it; the Ripper, saving Abigail, hurting Will? You could have gotten away with everything if you’d never met him.” _Or if you’d just killed him right away_ , my thoughts echoed darkly. Lecter laughed, but it did not touch his eyes.

“I have been asking myself that every day.”

He sighed.

“But, I must leave you now Dr. Hirsch. I’m afraid I have an appointment to keep.”

“Wait—“

He began to turn away, and I acted quickly, stupidly. Just as it seemed like I might make it through the day alive, I grabbed Lecter by his sleeve. He stiffened immediately, and a low, animal noise rumbled from his chest.

“You are lucky I have found you helpful, Dr Hirsch, but do not mistake my politeness for unwillingness to do you harm. The last person to touch this coat ended up on my table.”

I flinched back from his words, but didn’t let go, not yet.

“Please, just…” I began, fear flowing thick through me once more, “Leave Will alone. He’s not… he couldn’t handle it, not now. You haven’t seen him.”

I had been incredibly unwilling to let Graham out of therapy, but as his presence in my office was no longer court-mandated, and I could not truthfully say that he was at risk of harming anyone, I had no choice. That did not mean that I thought his fragile grip on reality could handle having Hannibal Lecter appear back into his life.

A look of pain crossed Lecter’s face briefly.

“He will not see me now. I promise that, doctor.”

I relaxed my grip from his arm, and he walked away briskly. I noted how carefully he smoothed the lines I’d inadvertently marred the sleeve with, and as his words echoed through my head, I realized what he’d said. What he’d carefully avoided saying.

I gave him time to leave, imagining too well what he might do if I impeded his escape. I walked the long way around the winding path through tombstones as the light faded. I thought absently about tomorrow, a Thursday. I thought I might call off, and make a visit of my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has kept up with this story, and to those of you who are just discovering it! This is the first chaptered fic I've written, and I'm so glad to have stuck with it! I'm not nearly done just because Dr. Hirsch's part of the story is over. (Although I must admit, I'll miss the company more than I though I would.) I love hearing your feedback, so leave a comment if you want, or check out my other pieces. And as always, keep an eye out for future projects. 
> 
> -Q


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